Something is Broken
by Sarahbeara333
Summary: When Sherlock returns after 3 years, John welcomes him back with open arms. They both start to think about their relationship and question if there could be something more to it than friendship. But what if Sherlock isn't the only one whose come back?
1. Chapter 1: I'm Alive

**First things first. These are not my characters, nor will it ever be. The characters were all originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the ones that were not belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Second, I would like to say _this fic is not entirely mine_. It was co-written and created by my RP and friend Trace (you can find him at striped-cardigan on tumblr). Last, because this _is _an RP I cannot give you warnings right now except that it is rated M so look out for the warnings in the beginning of each chapter. I hope you enjoy! (Also, only the first chapter is in text-form. The rest is regular paragraphs).**

**When Sherlock returns after 3 years, John welcomes him back with open arms. They both start to think about their relationship and question if there could be something more to it than friendship. But what if Sherlock isn't the only one whose come back? In this RP-turn-fic, Sherlock and John struggle to understand their unique relationship as well as work through the difficulties of the present while combating haunted memories that could break them apart or bring them closer than ever.**

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. -SH

This isn't funny. Whoever this is, don't text this number again. -JW

Perhaps that was a bit inappropriate, given the circumstances... Social niceties, so tedious. But it really is me, John. I'm not dead. -SH

Prove it. -JW

For one, I don't see the reasoning in anyone impersonating me. It seems rather counterproductive. And do you recall that phone call, the one prior to my 'death'? I gave you a warning, if you were listening closely... It was all just 'a magic trick'. -SH

But... But it can't be... Sherlock Holmes, you utter bastard. It's been THREE YEARS, three bloody years since I saw you on that roof. You didn't think to tell me a bit sooner? -JW

I apologize. I couldn't risk telling you, as much as I would have liked to. I had to stay discreet. I was preoccupied with taking down the last of Moriarty's web. Had they known that I was alive and you were aware, it would have cost us both our lives. -SH

I... So I gather they're all gone then, Moriarty's men? Can you come home? -JW

Yes, to my knowledge, they've all been eliminated. And yes, I can. I'm going to as soon as possible—there's still the matter of clearing my name completely, but that can wait. I'll be back in London by tomorrow afternoon. -SH

Oh thank god. I can't, I never stopped believing in you, you know that? Not once did I even doubt you. -JW

Regardless of all the circumstances, you never questioned it all? Regardless of the fact that I told you not to? As always your dedication intrigues me. Though that's not to say it isn't appreciated, John. I knew I could trust you in this, and you didn't disappoint. -SH

It couldn't have been fake. _You_ couldn't be. No one can fake being that infuriating and brilliant at the same time. -JW

I'll consider that a compliment. -SH

If you'd like. But where have you been living? It can't have been in London, you'd be too easily found. -JW

I've been constantly traveling to track them all down. Spent awhile in a few villages, eventually ended up in one group in particular's trail in France for about a year, and most recently, America. It's all been rather tedious traveling, however. I rather missed your company. -SH

I—I missed you too Sherlock. -JW

...There were countless times that I almost gave up, you know. I wanted nothing more than to return to London and see you again. Though I was aware of the consequences, the very thought of it was overwhelmingly tempting. I began to question my mental stability, at that point. -SH

At least you knew I was safe. Thinking you were dead... I had to go back to therapy because of you. I almost pulled the—well we don't really need to talk about that. -JW

...Oh. I had no idea you'd be so affected... I apologize. -SH

I know I never told you that you're my best friend, but you can't have been so thick as to not figure it out? I swear, you may be a genius but with emotions you are a complete idiot. -JW

One's emotional state is usually irrelevant to my work; I never pay such frivolities much mind. Or rather, I never had. Until recently. Not to mention I've never been considered anyone's best friend–or friend at all–until I met you. I suppose you could say it's an area where I am rather... Inexperienced. -SH

And in other areas to do with relationships? -JW

As I previously stated, relationships of any nature have never yet been of any particular importance to me. -SH

Yeah but you didn't exactly say that, did you? So you've never... I mean, Mycroft said but I never really thought... -JW

If you're implying that I've never been involved in any sort of relationship involving sex, then you are correct in your assumptions. -SH

Not even once, in Uni? Don't you ever want to just try it, even as an experiment? -JW

I've always found myself far too preoccupied with my work. Sex has never been relevant. -SH

Sherlock, do you actually realize how strange you are? What if it was relevant? -JW

Strange, perhaps, but far more practical than all the tedious rubbish ordinary people choose to go through. And if it were relevant, of course I'd need to… consider it. -SH

Are you afraid? -JW

Why on earth would I be afraid? Just because I find it a bit unnecessary does not mean I find it particularly alarming. -SH

Mycroft seems to think so. -JW

Mycroft seems to be far too invested in my personal affairs. -SH

All I'm saying is you don't seem to be very comfortable discussing it. -JW

It's not exactly a matter I discuss very often. -SH

I suppose it wouldn't be. Are you close to the flat? I moved back in by the way, after about six months of couch hopping. -JW

I'm on my way, as a matter of fact. It'd probably be best if you warned Mrs. Hudson before I arrive, wouldn't want to give her a fright. -SH

Right. Well see you soon. Ha, I never thought I'd be able to say that to you again. -JW


	2. Chapter 2: Tea and Boxes

**First things first. These are not my characters, nor will it ever be. The characters were all originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the ones that were not belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Second, I would like to say _this fic is not entirely mine_. It was co-written and created by my RP and friend Trace (you can find him at striped-cardigan on tumblr). **

Sherlock let out something of a breath of relief upon arriving at Baker Street in the cab. Upon stopping in front of the flat, he slowly exited the vehicle, taking a moment to analyze the all-too familiar location. Not much seemed to have changed, which he found strangely comforting... But he couldn't keep John waiting—and he couldn't wait any longer himself. He strode quickly to the door of 221B, and rang the doorbell.

John was pacing when he heard the bell to the flat ring. Since he had stopped texting Sherlock he had drank exactly four cups of tea to calm himself and had been wearing a hole in the rug on and off for the better part of an hour. As soon as the buzzer sounded, he practically leaped to the door, fifth cup of tea forgotten. John gripped the door handle tightly and turned it with caution. Standing on the stoop and ripping through any last doubts he may have still had was Sherlock Holmes, complete with scarf and over-coat and wearing a slightly worried expression. Seeing his friends face after so long... John was speechless. That's when he punched Sherlock.

Sherlock was expecting John to be angry. He wasn't expecting... That. He stumbled back, a bit in shock, one hand to his now-sore jaw. He furrowed his brow a bit, looking at John in studious, calculating silence for a minute.

"...Same old John." He sort of muttered that under his breath. "I missed you too." He said bluntly, in something of an awkwardly sarcastic response to John's knee-jerk reaction upon seeing him again.

John stood there for a moment and then laughed heartily, Sherlock chuckling slightly as well.

"I've missed this." he said.

John measured the wispy man standing before him before pulling him into a hug. It was slightly awkward, as Sherlock did not seem to know how to hug and was all elbows. After a moment of being at a total loss, Sherlock wrapped his wiry arms around John's frame, which was dwarfed in comparison to his own. John smiled slightly into the hug. _Sherlock is very warm_ he thought.

Sherlock was a bit taken aback by John's sudden gesture, and his breath hitched a bit at first but he embraced him nonetheless. It was strange, and almost foreign to him—expressing any sort of affection or fondness like this. He rather liked it though because John was there. Finally. After three years, John was here again. After all this time, John still believed in him, and now here he was... in his arms.

John felt Sherlock fist his hands in the upper back of his jumper and smiled. It was so nice to just feel the other man pressed against him, reminding him he was real and not just another dream only to have his heart broken all over again in the morning. He breathed in Sherlock's scent, a mixture of chemicals with slightly sweet undertones. It shouldn't have been pleasant but at the moment it was the best thing John had ever smelled. He pushed Sherlock away regretfully and sighed.

"We should really go talk to Mrs. Hudson. She's going to have a fit."

Sherlock frowned a bit and nodded. He wasn't exactly looking forward to Mrs. Hudson fussing over him, but it'd only be worse if she found out some other way. One hand sort of hovered at John's shoulder as he stepped into the building. Nothing had really changed much, aside from the slightly unsettling aura of normalcy about the place. It had never felt so average and peaceful when he was around.

As he walked up the stairs, John felt Sherlock's hand on the small of his back. It was quite comforting and he dreaded the moment he would have to pull away, although he would never admit this to Sherlock. He headed into the little kitchen on the first floor, Sherlock hot on his heels and called,

"Mrs. Hudson, he's back!"

In the time it took him to blink, Mrs. Hudson was across the room and fawning over Sherlock, trying to feed him biscuits and tea, convinced that he was malnourished from his time abroad (thought to be fair, he was skinny as a lath).

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you ever do that to me again. What you've put me and poor John through... Did you know he had to go back to therapy because of you? Honestly, the things you do..."

Mrs. Hudson kept up a string of complaints as she puttered around the kitchen, getting the tin of scones from the top shelf.

Sherlock didn't bother protesting the food Mrs. Hudson was practically force-feeding him. He'd quite missed her cooking. As soon as she left him alone for a moment to get the scones he took a seat at the kitchen table, glancing over at John and then the still-fussy Mrs. Hudson.

"I'll have you know I don't plan on pretending to be dead again anytime soon, don't worry. It had to be done though, really. Moriarty's people were still out there, that needed to be sorted out..."

He took a sip of the tea Mrs. Hudson had handed him with a sort of ridiculous urgency as if he hadn't had anything to drink in days. He would have explained further, but he didn't want to worry the woman any more than necessary.

"I… I apologize."

John and Mrs. Hudson both abruptly stopped what they were doing and looked up at Sherlock in shock.

"Did you just apologize?" John asked.

He had never heard him apologize to anyone but himself and Lestrade on a few occasions. Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"My 'death' seems to have caused enough emotional distress for the both of you, I felt only obligated to apologize after 'coming back from the dead' and disturbing the peace, so to speak. That's what people do, don't they? Apologize after pretending to die and causing others suffering?"

He looked at them both expectantly. Silence. Perhaps that _wasn't_ 'what people do'. He shifted a bit in his seat, taking another sip of tea before clearing his throat.

"Ah, and Mrs. Hudson—I see you've adopted a cat." He remarked as if what he'd just said meant nothing. There was no cat in sight, but he gestured at Mrs. Hudson. "Traces of orange fur and dander on your sleeve." He seemed to mutter. "Long haired, perhaps?"

Clearing his throat, John finally found his voice. "It... It is. What people do, I mean. I just haven't heard you apologize a lot. Thank you Sherlock, that was very… thoughtful."

John, who'd never blushed a day in his life, was feeling dangerously close to doing so as he hid his face in his scone.

Sherlock nodded slightly, glancing down at his tea. A part of him was a bit satisfied with the fact that he'd actually managed a decent, 'normal' apology. He felt it was only necessary, given the circumstances. Being as observant as he was, he noticed John appeared to be a tad... uncomfortable? He wasn't sure. He'd never seen John act so subtly hesitant like that before, but tried not to pay it much mind now.

"Mn. Well, as I said, it only seemed… appropriate." He took another drawn-out sip of tea.

"Right. Well I'm going to head up. I need to clear something's away if you're to move back in again. That is if you are? I just assumed..." John set down his cuppa and looked at Sherlock expectantly. The detective appeared to have something on his mind however, so he turned to say a quick good-bye to Mrs. Hudson and leaned down to pet her orange long-haired feline (as Sherlock had so correctly deduced). It mewled at him as he scratched it between the ears.

Sherlock looked up, still somewhat absorbed in thought, speaking only as John had already turned to leave.

"Yes, I'll be moving back in." He muttered, his gaze drifting briefly towards the cat who seemed to have come out of hiding and was presently sitting at the detective's feet. He didn't seem to pay it much mind, and if anything he looked the slightest bit irritated. But he wasn't about to admit his allergy to cat dander. He glanced back up, sniffing slightly and picking up his coat, which he'd draped over the chair.

"On second thought, John, I think I'll join you." He said, sounding a bit oddly nasally due to the oncoming allergic reaction and he stood, nodding good-bye to Mrs. Hudson and exiting after John.

John headed up the stairs and turned the brass doorknob, the hinges squeaking as he opened it. He walked slowly over to the mantel and cleared away a few forgotten teacups and brought them to the kitchen. It was an odd sort of feeling, having Sherlock back again. He could blatantly feel the years that had passed and the emptiness it had filled him with but it also felt as if Sherlock had never left. He scratched his head absentmindedly and sighed, pouring hot water into the off tea, too distracted by Sherlock's arrival to actually wash them. When John shuffled back out into the main room, he noticed his friend staring at the dusty pile of boxes in the corner. Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

"Your stuff. Mrs. Hudson wanted to donate it but... It just didn't seem like what you would want. I don't know, I just—I had no idea what to do with it. I couldn't look at it, all round the flat so when I returned I just packed it up and left it there." he answered softly.

Sherlock nodded slowly. He was about to make some remark about his 'not being able to look at it all around the flat', and how silly the notion of sentiment was, but he decided against it.

"It's.. fine." Was all he managed to say.

"Do you want me to help put it around?" At Sherlocks short nod, John rubbed his hands on his jeans and picked a box off the top.

"Ah. I've found the —" he peered at the messy scrawl on the box, trying to decipher the smudged words. "I'm not sure, but I think this is cryogenically frozen thumbs."

Sherlock smirked slightly.

"You even kept my thumbs. Funny how sentiment triggered by loss can affect a person..." his voice trailed off into a mutter as he brought down a few of the boxes himself, muttering what the musty labels read aloud under his breath. John really had kept everything.

John flashed a light smile. He knew Sherlock meant to say thank you. He took the box of thumbs and put it on the kitchen table. He didn't much feel like touching the severed appendages any time soon and figured Sherlock would deal with them later. He went back to the corner and picked another box off of the mountainous pile. It read 'Pants' so John, again near blushing, pushed it to the back of the pile and hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed his embarrassment. He gripped a third box, hoping his luck would be better than the first two. 'Microscopes'. Satisfied, John put the box on his squishy chair and cut it open with a scalpel Sherlock had discarded on the coffee table.

"Sherlock, where do you want these—What are you doing with my jumpers?"

Sherlock blinked, setting the decidedly visually distracting, salmon-coloured cable-knit jumper back on the coffee table.

"Gift from Mrs. Hudson?" He said bluntly, a tinge of something torn between distaste and fondness towards the garment to his voice. He seemed like a child, curious as to every little detail that had changed since he left. He eventually drew his attention back to the boxes John had already started unpacking.

"Oh. The microscopes can go in the hall closet for now..."

"Really?" John asked, knowing he didn't need to confirm what Sherlock already knew.

"You don't want them out for experiments?" John took another box from the pile and opened it without looking at the label.

"Oh." He said, bemused. "I think I've found your acids. They've burned a hole through the box."

After a few long hours in which John discovered Sherlock's trousers, skull (which Mrs. Hudson had returned to him), and a cross bow, John sat down and inhaled his steaming cuppa. The flat almost looked as if he'd never left, despite the fact Sherlock actually made an effort to keep things somewhat tidy (putting the microscopes and severed limbs aside for the sake of there actually being room in the kitchen, for one, though this would assuredly be short-lived.). He'd gotten somewhat used to normal—albeit shabby living conditions over the past few years, so the old flat in its still somewhat cluttered yet cozy state was comfortable. After everything was unpacked properly, he perched himself in his old armchair as he always had, taking a moment to survey the present state of the room.

John kicked his feet up. He almost turned the tele on by force of habit but slowed his hand just inches from the remote. He wanted to talk to Sherlock. Perhaps the detective was clever enough to memorize his speech patterns and had loads of pseudo-conversations but John couldn't and had found himself missing the connection—even the shortest exchange of words—more than the brilliant deductions or the exciting adventures. But John was at a loss of where to even start, so when Sherlock asked him about his daily life (how bored had John been with out him), he readily told him the truth.

"Extremely. I didn't know what to do with myself for the longest time. Lestrade tried to call me out on a few cases but I couldn't. It wouldn't be—I just couldn't. I dated a few times. Went with this woman called Mary for a while but we uh... She ended it."

Sherlock listened surprisingly intently from his perch on his armchair.

"This Mary—what was she like?" Sherlock asked.

As much as this resembled the small talk he so often despised, he seemed genuinely interested. It may also have had something to do with the fact a certain Mary Morstan had once enlisted his help with a rather notable case, but either way he was still curious as to how John had fared those three years.

John was taken aback. Sherlock never asked about private life, he always seemed to think it too trivial and simply another distraction from a case unless he was bored. Then he was exceedingly interested. As the occasion was a rarity, John opened his mouth quickly in the hopes to get something out before Sherlock decided it was too dull to keep in his mind-palace.

"Oh she was lovely. Very pretty—blonde. Really smart. Well," John looked over at Sherlock with a slight smile. "Smart for a normal person anyway. And she helped me. But there just... It didn't..." John tried to put in to words how it had felt.

"Didn't feel right." he finished, unable to explain why, even to himself.

"We're still mates though." he added as an after thought.

Sherlock nodded slowly, and then glanced over at John critically.

"Mary… Morstan, I presume?"

He looked a bit solemn for a moment.

"Ironic." He muttered to himself, before continuing. "Helped her with a bit of a predicament involving a man with one leg and the disappearance of her father..."

He shrugged lightly as if this wasn't all that significant.

"Yes actually. Sherlock, you don't remember? I was there too, that's how she and I met." John replied in exasperation.

For all his observation skills, Sherlock could miss the most obvious things sometimes.

"I ran in to her a few months after you 'died'. We had coffee. The week after, I took her out for dinner. It was a fun night."

John attempted to appear nonchalant and failed miserably for in all his goodness and humility, he was very proud of his conquests and enjoyed boasting over them slightly. He wasn't lewd or offensive but simply liked to share when the occasion came about. Much like Sherlock was after he had finished an experiment, really.

Sherlock seemed to be a bit put off by this.

"Details, John." He muttered in response to John correcting him in his first statement, but appeared to be listening to John's recollection of his time with Mary with the same sort of bothered look about his face as a child uninterested in listening to their lessons and rolled his eyes. He didn't bother with much of a response before changing the subject- his facial expression spoke for itself.

"Well. While you were off pursuing your typical frivolous romantic ventures, I was engaged in a game of cat-and-mouse with a certain Colonel Sebastian Moran, if that's of any importance."

He shifted a bit in his seat, looking thoughtful.

"Second most dangerous man I've had the privilege of encountering in my life. Really wasn't all that clever on his own two feet, though. He was more of Moriarty's 'pet', than anything..."

John raised his eyebrows and wondered if Sherlock knew what he was insinuating. Moriarty had said that he wanted a 'live-in' one but he hadn't thought about it at the time. And now that he was thinking about it he really wished he wasn't because he never wanted to think about Moriarty doing sexual things ever again. At his sour expression, Sherlock raised his brows and John shook his head vehemently.

"Trust me, you do not want to know."

Sherlock glanced down.

"Hmn. I fear I already do."

He clasped his hands together and paused thoughtfully for a few moments.

"I meant 'pet' in just about every fathomable sense of the word, if that's what you were wondering." He said smugly.

"Ugh, oh god Sherlock! I don't even want to think about Moriarty getting off by himself, let alone because he's working over his bound, evil partner. Would make sense though, Moriarty being who he is." John mused.

It made him wonder about Mycroft which, if his face had been frowning before it was now an absolute scowl. Well if he had to think on this, he would make his friend share in his suffering.

"Makes one wonder about Mycroft." he said in a deliberately nonchalant manner.

The look on Sherlock's face was almost enough to make him collapse in a peal of laughter but he held his tongue when he saw Sherlock was ready to retort and looked utterly disgusted.

"Please, John. Not necessarily the most pleasant mental image by any means- though knowing my brother, I sincerely doubt there is any chance of anything of the sort occurring remotely... frequently."

He muttered something foul about Mycroft and Lestrade in a slightly hushed tone under his breath, his facial expression still contorted with some level of disgust and a bit of fear.

"No... Them? I didn't realize Mycroft um… swung that way. Which is fine, of course. But Lestrade? I thought he had that wife?" John asked, unsure.

Was everyone he knew gay? It seemed that Molly and Mrs. Hudson were the only ones left in his life who were straight. And himself, of course. Just because he cherished those rare moments that he got to hug Sherlock or hold his hand more than he ever did those with Sarah or Mary didn't mean he was bent.

John coughed, trying to dislodge the seed of doubt that had just planted itself in his mind. Sherlock frowned.

"Of course, but you haven't noticed have you?" He shook his head. "Its all so obvious. It's been an _issue_ for a long while now but of course no-one is supposed to know."

He sort of rolled his eyes, smug.

"As ever, Mycroft underestimates my perception abilities."

He furrowed his brow, noticing the sudden awkward tension in John's actions.

"It's nothing." said John quickly. "Now tell me how you ever managed to figure out that your brother and Lestrade are getting off together?"

While he was curious about how Sherlock had figured this out, the grander reason for asking him a question was that John knew his friend would get caught up in trying to prove his cleverness and not ask him about his stiff manner.

"It was all rather obvious, you know. When questioned about anything pertaining to my brother, the DI had always seemed quick to deny any sort of association they may have had, and was all too obviously making a panicked effort to deny even being acquainted with my brother—as evidenced by his diverted eye contact and gestures when discussing the matter. There were numerous occasions in which he had also lied about his previous location when he had obviously just been to see my brother—traces of cologne that could only belong to Mycroft softly on his person and his clothing always straightened, but hastily. He'd been in a rush to get his clothing back in place, but in a hurry. Similarly, Mycroft always denied any association between the two though seemed to always have a surprisingly adequate knowledge of trivial notions regarding Lestrades personal affairs, given the fact they were both quick to deny any insinuation of any sort of relations."

He shrugged lightly.

"Really, John, it was all so obvious..."

"You never cease to amaze me Sherlock." At his doubtful look John continued: "Really. You may be erratic, annoying, and an all around dick sometimes but you're absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock huffed and clearly attempted to act like he felt the whole compliment useless but failed miserably; he hid a blush and a secret smile by reaching for his violin. John sighed, noting the sign that Sherlock was done with the conversation. He turned away, about to go to the store to buy jam and milk but Sherlock interrupted, putting aside his bow and lowering the ebony wood from his chin.

Sherlock frowned slightly. After being gone for so long, he hated to admit it but he really didn't want to face John leaving anytime soon, no matter the circumstances. It was silly and irrational and childish, but just the thought of John leaving to go to the store sparked a strange naive uneasiness within him- an irrational dread of him never coming back. He immediately dismissed the notion of acting on the foolish emotional impulse, and instead merely called after John—

"If you're going to the store, do pick up some nicotine patches."

Before feigning a smug smile and picking his violin back up.

"Right." John said, wanting to say more but unsure of how he could even put what he wanted to express in to words.


	3. Chapter 3: An Unwelcome Visit

**First things first. These are not my characters, nor will it ever be. The characters were all originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the ones that were not belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Second, I would like to say _this fic is not entirely mine_. It was co-written and created by my RP and friend Trace (you can find him at striped-cardigan on tumblr). **

When he arrived at the market, John grabbed a trolley and pushed it down the produce isle. It was when he was staring at two different jam options, considering the price and quality that a gloved hand came up round his mouth and he was dragged back in to the 'Authorized Personality Only' room. John instinctively tried to grab the arm to flip his assailant but suddenly, the man was gone. John glanced around frantically as a booming voice filled the room.

"John, John, John. My dear Watson, how have you been? Did you miss me?" Johns throat convulsed. He knew that dopey voice better than his own.

"Moriarty."

The man stepped from the shadows, expression as mad as ever.

"Ah Johnny boy, so lovely to see you again. I'm afraid I'm going to have to borrow you. Well, steal you really as I have no intention of giving you back." John, who was almost always a man of action, waited.

"What do to want? I thought you were dead!"

"Ah well, you would think that, wouldn't you? So simple, so ordinary..."

The man slipped back in to the shadows and John blinked, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room.

"As to what I want, I'll apologize for killing you painfully in advance."

The laugh echoed throughout the empty room and John spun round, trying to get a fix on the madman. Before he could cry out, the hand once more snaked itself around his head and covered his nose and mouth. An acrid smell assaulted his senses and he instinctively tried to suck in more air. He started to feel light-headed and in less than a minute, an unconscious John Watson was being carried away by a smiling James Moriarty.

It wasn't just the newfound bit of separation anxiety that seemed to be eating away at Sherlock, there was something else, too… guilt, perhaps? A rather foreign feeling to the detective indeed, but a troubling one nonetheless. He should have told John _everything_. He knew John wouldn't exactly be pleased with the knowledge that there was suspicion Moriarty was still alive—and there had been something he'd been meaning to tell John—and he was bored of expressing his concerns to the skull, as he had been doing ever since John had left. He checked the time on his phone—John had been gone for over an hour now, far too long for a quick run to the store. Without hesitance, he sent him a text:

Bored. Come back, I need your opinion on something. The skull is being difficult and refuses to listen to me. -SH

John awoke in a dark, concrete room that smelled faintly of chemicals and blood. His mouth had been gagged and his wrists and ankles tied to the chair. He blinked a few times, pupils dilating as he adjusted to the dank surroundings. Moriarty was stood in front of him with a devious smile that could creep into the corners of ones brain and leave nagging ideas of whatever the man might like; as infectious as any air-born plague.

Jim Moriarty approached John with all the confidence of a man who'd already won. He stretched out his arm and slid his hands over Johns chest pocket, apparently searching for something. The cool hand left shivers crawling up his spine in a most unpleasant manner. Moriarty frowned slightly and muttered under his breath,

"Where is it?"

He removed his hand from John's pectorals and slid his hand in to John's trouser pockets, smiling as he pulled out John's phone. He turned it on and typed something, smiling as he did. John attempted to ask what he had done, but what came out sounded more like 'wahc avi ou doghmn?'

Moriarty patted his cheek.

"What's this? Does Sherlock's pet have something to say?" he reached over, untying the gag. John sputtered and said,

"What did you say?"

The mans smile widened.

"Oh nothing of import. Just sent a little message to your keeper."

"He's not my keeper and I'm not his pet!" John ejaculated. "You may have enjoyed some sort of depraved bondage games with your Sebastian but different to you, Sherlock and I are not shagging."

"Well you see that's the problem! Your Sherlock killed my pet. Quite unfortunate, really; I was rather fond of him."

John grimaced.

"So what does that all have to do with me?"

Moriarty got a dreamy look in his eyes.

"Ah you see, my dear Watson, this has given offence to me. Finding a new pet is oh so tedious and Seb and I did _so_ enjoy our little games. I do apologize for getting you mixed in with adult affairs but daddy must have his revenge. An eye for an eye, is that the old saying? Quite misinterpreted by you _normal_ people but in this instance... I think your meaning shall do nicely."

"So because Sherlock destroyed your… pet, you plan to kill me."

"Exactly so. I'm afraid it won't be much fun for you, I will draw it out as long as I possibly can."

With this, Moriarty pulled out an array of tools, some of which John recognized, some of which he did not, and others that were so frightening that he did not even want to speculate on their purpose. John Watson would never admit it, but he was scared.

Back in 221B Baker street, Sherlock Holmes received a text message reading: I've got your pet; now come and play. —JM

Sherlock looked at the message and blinked. For just a split second, he questioned that he had read it correctly. He wasn't sure whether to acknowledge the oncoming sense of dread solely for John's sake, or the spark of sick admiration for Moriarty's ability to find out he was alive and get to them so quickly. He paused to think for a moment before typing up his response.

Welcome back. I don't suppose it would be of any use for me to ask where you are? -SH"

John groaned, the blunt side of what felt like a bat colliding with his ribs once more. Just when he thought he couldn't take anymore, Moriarty daintily put down the bat and picked up John's phone as it glowed bright. John squinted his eyes at the brilliant intrusion but Moriarty just typed up a reply.

Of course not; where would be the fun in that? But come quickly, I'm afraid I've been mishandling your toy. —JM

Moriarty then took to the camera part of John's phone, snapping a few pictures of the bruised man before clapping in delight.

"Why Doctor, I believe I have found a picture that perfectly depicts your best qualities! See how the blood glints just so off your forehead!"

John simply glared in response as Moriarty sent the picture message to Sherlock's phone.

Sherlock cringed a bit at the grim, admittedly disturbing photo that briefly appeared along with Jim's response. He looked it over analytically—trying to divert his attention from John's condition and look more for details about his surroundings. They appeared to be in an old warehouse, presumably one not too far from the store that John had gone to. He knew exactly where he was going. With a bit of a bothered sigh he debated silently whether or not he should respond at all. On one hand, showing up randomly would be more extravagant and less expected but on the other, a response would distract Jim and thus buy John some time. He decided to go with the latter.

On my way. –SH

He sent the response and set to quickly throwing on his coat and scarf, and grabbing the handgun from the desk.

Moriarty turned off the mobile with a click, nodding at John extravagantly.

"Your keeper is coming. He should be here within ten minutes. Shall we have a bit more fun before mummy gets home?"

"You're despicable."

"You're just noticing?"

The man looked at his tools for a good minute before picking up a cattle prod. He flicked it on and off menacingly and the instrument emitted a low buzzing sound. With a burbling laugh, Moriarty ghosted it over John's chest until it was focused on his abdomen and flicked it on.

"Ah good. The fun has just begun." he sang as John's grunts of pain echoed through the room.

When Sherlock arrived eight and a half minutes later, Moriarty had discarded his cattle prod and seemed to be carving something into John's forearm. Sherlock did not, however, get a chance to read it. Sherlock strode into the old, somewhat decrepit looking building briskly, eventually finding the dark room Jim and John looked to be in. He paused in the doorway for a moment, glancing about the room and turning his attention to Jim, who seemed to be preoccupied with mutilating John's arm. He cleared his throat, his voice echoing throughout the room as he spoke.

"Old abandoned warehouse... Rather stereotypical of you, honestly. I might go as far as to say that this is all quite _disappointing_."

At the very least he'd distracted Moriarty with the sudden appearance of his silhouette in the doorway, and he threw John a mildly apologetic glance. Moriarty turned away from John and he could see a mad smile playing across the mans face.

"Ah Mr. Holmes, I see you've joined us. So good of you, I don't know how much longer I could play with your pet, he's not half as fun as mine was. Mine used to scream."

Moriarty threw a dramatically grand gesture around the building.

"Do you like it? I find that it has a great effect on the sound—watch!"

Without any other warning, Moriarty picked up a discarded pipe, which John was sure was made of lead, and swung a quick blow against Johns head. It was not hard enough to knock him out cold and was aimed just so, so that John let out an involuntary grunt of surprise and pain. It was amplified by the acoustics in the warehouse and carried so perfectly that when it reached Sherlock, it sounded ten times louder than it was when originally emitted.

Sherlock blinked, resisting the urge to cringe at the amplified cry of pain, his facial expression remaining cold and unaffected, though there was the slightest, hardly detectable glimmer of pure hatred in his eyes. His tone was cold and each word was drawn out sharply as he spoke.

"Enough games. What do you want this time?"

Knowing Jim Moriarty, he would logically assume this had something to do with Sebastian's death, but Moriarty was insane, so there was no way to be certain of his motives—the least he could do was clarify Sherlock's assumptions.

"I suppose this has something to do with Sebastian. Revenge, I presume." He smirked slightly, his hand drifting instinctively towards the gun in his coat pocket.

"Never fully grasped the concept of revenge. Emotions—foolish impulses, are they not? Some may say that one consumed in passionate pursuit of revenge may be ignorant of the pragmatics of the situation, though I wouldn't expect you to think I came unprepared..."

"If you had I would have been extremely disappointed," Moriarty's ferocious grin widened. "Oh you say that now but I know you, I am you. I can detect the angry tremor in your hand, the worry in your eyes. You love your pet so much; dangerous business, emotions. I'll soon fix it for you."

A second before Sherlock pulled out his .45 Moriarty jumped behind John, holding a sharp something against his throat.

"Tisk, tisk Sherlock. You shoot me, I slit your Doctors pretty little throat."

Sherlock slowly lowered the gun, almost choking on the words

"Don't. John does not need to be involved in this any further."

He shifted his stance slightly before slowly stepping forward, testing.

"This is between you and I only, it's only irrational and naive to be involving John of all people in this ordeal." He said flatly, still ignoring what Moriarty had mentioned about his actually loving John and trying to maintain an unaffected and cold expression.

"Of course it is. Sherlock, do you know how hard it is to find a good slave?" he whined. "Sebastian was so loyal. And a great fuck, but you wouldn't understand that, would you?"

Moriarty turned and eyed John with a calculating expression.

"Or do you? Hmm... Maybe I can understand what you see in him." His cold breath ghosted across Johns ear and he trailed a hand up his leg, making it obvious to Sherlock.

"You're disgusting." John spat, trying to pull away.

Sherlock frowned; clasping his hands behind his back as he made his way across the large, empty room, basically restraining himself from lashing out at Moriarty—yet. Either way, he found himself incredibly conflicted. Jim was trying so deviously to provoke Sherlock, and he hated to admit that Jim knew what made him tick all too well and that it was working. He wanted to remain calm, to express that he was superior to Moriartys manipulative nature and devious tricks, but doing so would require him to stand by and watch John suffer. He couldn't stand that and this was just taking it too far—but he didn't want Jim to get what he wanted. Moriarty wanted him to break.

"Stop it. If that is supposed to provoke me to act out, it is not at all working in your favour. You seem to underestimate me yet again. John and I are not... In a sexual relationship."

Was all he managed to say now, and even then his cold tone was becoming more constricted with the slightest hint of anger.

"Would you like to be?" Moriarty asked with a grin. "Ah but too late; perhaps I want to keep him now."

The man leaned over, closer to John than anyone had been in a long time. He bit down slightly on John's skin; giggling at the murderous glare Sherlock gave him.

"On the other hand, he's rather boring. I suppose I'll just kill him."

Sherlock frowned still. He actually looked significantly annoyed, now. His words were sharp and each one had a tinge of hatred to it.

"Kill him and I'll kill you."

He tilted his head, looking at Moriarty critically and furrowing his brow.

"What do you want, anyway? Is this all honestly just a pathetic attempt to annoy me, because you were _bored_?"

"Of course not!" Moriarty shook his head, looking slightly disappointed and a bit of longing seemed to flash through his eyes but was gone in less than a second.

"I've come back to tell you 'hello'. You may have thought you killed all my men Sherlock, but the game has just begun. As for your pet here, do you really want to take that chance? Sure you could kill me but then again, I could kill John." he seemed to think this over for a second, then continued, "Ah but I won't though. I have other things to do, people to see. Now Doctor dearest," he addressed John with the manner one would use on a child or dog.

"Do be careful." he pressed the blade slightly harder in to Johns throat and a little prick of blood dripped slowly down his neck.

"There are so many bad people in this world; wouldn't want to get yourself hurt. Sherlock I will be seeing you again, quite soon, in fact."

Moriarty seemed to simply vanish and as suddenly as the whole ordeal had come, it passed.


	4. Chapter 4: Sentimental Contemplations

**First things first. These are not my characters, nor will it ever be. The characters were all originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the ones that were not belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Second, I would like to say _this fic is not entirely mine_. It was co-written and created by my RP and friend Trace (you can find him at striped-cardigan on tumblr). **

As soon as Moriarty disappeared, Sherlock rushed forward to John breathlessly, immediately falling to his knees in order to undo the ropes that bound his ankles and wrists. He looked him over, as if assessing the damage and cringed faintly, his hands placed lightly on Johns shoulders.

"It's worse than I had thought... We need to get you back to the flat immediately." He nodded briskly, looking at John with concern in his eyes.

"It's okay, I'm fine. Just... just calm down—Sherlock!" John exclaimed as his friend tore furiously at the bonds. "It's okay, just help me get my hands free."

Sherlock hastily undid the ropes that were chaffing his friends wrists and John brought his hands down to gingerly inspect his damaged sides and chest. He was relieved to find that no ribs had been broken, nor any other bone that he could feel. _Doesn't mean that there's no internal bleeding_,his mind supplied for him automatically. Deciding he could check his abdomen and his head for hæmorrhaging when they were back at the flat with a hot cuppa in his hand John said:

"I really am fine, Sherlock. I'll do a full examination when we get home." Sherlock breathed a shaky sigh of relief and rested his head on John's knees but before they could relax, the right sleeve of Johns yellow jumper brushed against his arm and he yelped. Sherlock demanded to see the wound and hesitantly John showed him. Carved upon his arm and still glistening a softly violent red were the initials 'J.M.'. Sherlock delicately touched John's arm, taking care not to directly irritate the cuts. He seemed to study the wound for a moment, looking both intrigued and spiteful. He looked back up at John solemnly—the look on his face spoke for itself and he really didn't know how to put what he was thinking into words. Instead he lightly placed his gloved hand in John's—forcing a sort of half-smile and helping him to his feet.

John smiled back at his friend, appreciating the rarity of this occurrence—Sherlock Holmes smiling, not because he had completed an exciting case or done something extremely clever, but because John needed him to. He accepted the help up, the coarse material of Sherlock's glove surprisingly comforting against his bloodied hand. When he was standing, neither man let go nor said a word about it.

"Right. Let's uh, let's go, shall we?"

He nodded, already beginning to lead the way outside when he glanced down and seemed to realize he was still holding John's hand. He awkwardly cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and seemingly lost in thought for a moment before they exited the building and he hailed a cab.

John shuffled slightly and ran his now cold hand through his soft hair. When a cab pulled up he and Sherlock clambered inside, the cabbie giving John a sidelong glance—most likely concerned with John's appearance.

"Right. Where do you want to go?" John relayed the address and the cab sped away. Sherlock seemed oblivious to the driver's suspicion regarding John's appearance, he seemed to be thinking intently on the way back to the flat, snapping out of his mind palace only to pay and dismiss the cabbie after clambering out of the cab and pausing to help John along and upstairs as well. His fussing over John's condition was somewhat childish, making an allowance for the fact that he'd never really bothered to help anyone else in any state of injury or disability.

In the flat, Sherlock helped John on to the couch. After a couple of minutes, John realized that Sherlock was still standing there and twiddling his hands in an awkward gesture.

"Was there... Did you need something?" asked John uncertainly.

Sherlock looked up at him, looking a bit troubled.

"Ahh, me? No. No, I'm fine." He looked around awkwardly. "I'll make tea." He sort of muttered absently, striding off into the kitchen and setting to heating some water for the swill. There were so many things running through his mind—all of which had to do with what had just happened. There were so many things he wanted to say to John, but he couldn't make sense of how exactly to express them and it was incredibly disquieting. He walked back into the sitting room and handed John a cup of tea a couple of minutes later and took a seat himself with his own tea, pensively staring into the drink as if tea held all of the answers.

John finished the last drops of tea with a gulp. Though he hadn't realized he'd wanted it, the milky concoction had been just what he needed. John glanced over at Sherlock, his mind whirring. The entire experience had felt excruciatingly slow while Moriarty had been torturing him but once he had some perspective on the matter he realized that it had occurred in little under an hour. He examined Sherlock with a fierce curiosity. The man was almost never quiet—always having something going through his mind and usually sharing it with John. Or when he wasn't, he was sulking and emitting waves of coldness. Now he just looked... Well if John didn't know any better, he would say that his friend looked confused. John endeavored to figure out what was troubling the genius but it was unfathomable. He gave up a few minutes later and set the cup down with a light thump, starting to rise so he could access his back for the self check-up but Sherlock interrupted.

"John." He stated bluntly out of the blue, just catching his friend's attention as John had set to leave the room.

Sherlock had looked back up intently at John when he stood up. After much contemplation whilst staring at his tea hopelessly and eventually downing it in a few sips, he'd decided on conducting a sort of experiment—it seemed the only logical course of action given his present state of being at a loss when it came to interpreting his emotional circumstances. Like any good experiment, he figured it would require some trial and error. He might as well start testing his hypothesis as soon as possible.

"...I...I hope that entire incident has not affected you... too significantly." His tone was awkward and stiff—he wasn't used to speaking like this, but he meant every word.

John glanced back at Sherlock in surprise. Though his tone made him sound distant and unapproachable, John had lived with the man long enough to know when he was feeling put upon verse nervous. After a few seconds he realized he should respond. "Um... Thank you, Sherlock. It was... I'm fine." And just as John was turning to leave, he faced Sherlock once more. "It wasn't your fault, you know. You couldn't have known."

Sherlock nodded slowly.  
>"No, I'm afraid its entirely my fault." He paused. "This could have been prevented. I suspected that Moriarty himself was still alive. I should have warned you earlier." He looked down solemnly. This was almost as uncomfortable to him as admitting he'd gotten something wrong, though this time his mistake had had significantly more severe consequences.<p>

"You're right." John snapped. "You bloody well should have," his voice softened: "But that doesn't make it your fault." John walked a few steps back towards Sherlock. "I'm fine—Really. Now I'm going to go have a shower." John worded this carefully, sensing it would be better for Sherlock's mental health to not mention any possible internal bleeding.

"If you really want to apologize, you can go pick up the milk and jam."

Sherlock held back a scowl at the thought of the terribly mundane horrors of doing the shopping but perhaps this 'change of heart' would contribute well to his little experiment-in-progress. He nodded slowly.

"I might as well. I could do with more nicotine patches, anyhow." He lightly shrugged, and set off to pick up the shopping as soon as John went to shower.

John almost decided to just look himself over before showering but knowing Sherlock, he would be listening for the sound of running water. So John shrugged off his shirt and jumper (both were torn round the arms and chest) and turned on the tap. In front of his bathroom mirror he gave himself a check up—poking and prodding at the soft flesh of his stomach and back. Satisfied, he pulled back his fringe and ran a hand through his hair, feeling for lumps or anything concave. As luck would have it, there was nothing alarming about John's head or torso so he shoved off his trousers and pants; socks and trainers already having been removed when he reached the couch. Stepping under the hot current felt wonderful—relaxing all the muscles that had been so tense just moments ago. He scrubbed at himself, perfectly content and only wincing when he rubbed at the slowly healing cut that Moriarty had left him.

Sherlock despised convenience stores. He despised shopping and stores in the first place, they were the gathering places of repugnantly monotonous and ordinary people carrying out their dull daily activities and acting so disturbingly chipper about the prospect of depleting their money. It was a wonder he managed to quickly locate John's favorite jam, reasonably priced milk, and a supply of nicotine patches, continuing on to make a prompt exit as quickly as he did. The store was just down the street from the flat, so it didn't take him long to return to 221B, setting down the bags in the kitchen and still looking horribly bitter at the notion of shopping.

John got out of the shower feeling substantially more rejuvenated than he had in a while. Slipping on his stripped robe, he headed downstairs to make a cuppa—which was where he encountered Sherlock glaring at the grocery.

"Was there a particular reason that you are staring murderously at the milk or are you in one of your moods?"

Sherlock looked up at John as if snapped out of a trance—he had been staring at the grocery whilst thinking about something entirely dissimilar, which left him with a troubled expression.

"Oh. It's nothing of importance."

He then mumbled something about convenience stores being crimes against sociopaths everywhere before setting to putting the grocery away in the refrigerator. He noted a surprising lack of severed limbs and experiments in the fridge due to his absence for so long, though he intended for this to change sooner rather than later.

"Right." said he. "Tell me the last time you've spent any amount of time considering something that was not of importance?" John sighed, realizing he most likely wasn't going to get a straight answer and reached up to grab a teabag out of the cabinet. Once brewed, complete with the milk Sherlock had bought, John sat and stared at the still-silent man and waited for the reply to his query. To prompt him, John asked:

"So what was it then?"

Sherlock seemed still to be thinking for quite some time before he acknowledged John's question; he clasped his hands together thoughtfully. It was all subconsciously deliberate; it would put him in an adequate position to test part one of his 'experiment.' He looked up at John critically before responding.

"If you really wish to know..." he paused, as if collecting his thoughts. Trial and error was to be expected—error was most likely inevitably the result of his following actions. Maybe. He spoke anyway, his tone testing and devious.

"John... Do you recall what exactly Moriarty had said about you and I?"

"I don't... Which bit? The part about me being your pet or the bit about us shagging-but-not-really?" John rubbed his head in confusion. "It's all a bit... Muddled around really. Why?"

He fought the urge to roll his eyes in petty frustration.

"Mostly the latter." He paused for a moment. This would most likely go horribly wrong, but at the very least he could gauge John's reaction.

"And I'm sure you are more than aware of the fact that nearly everyone makes similar assumptions regarding our relationship."

He sort of leaned back on the counter as he spoke.

"And I had just found myself contemplating the matter, and the aspect of it all that I find so muddling is the fact that according to the general public, we _are_ engaged in that type of relationship. Yet we're not. And perhaps the most troubling question is why _not_?" The open-endedness and utter abruptness of his question filled the air with a sudden unaccounted for tension. He didn't need to go into a comprehensive explanation of how he is thoroughly aware that John is attracted to him, or anything of the sort. There was enough of a mutual understanding implicated in that simple two-worded question that he didn't really need to.

"I–I" John sputtered. His mouth dropped open, ready to reply then snapped shut again. After a fair few minutes in which the tension seemed to swell he replied,

"I didn't even think you were interested. No, erase that, I _knew_ you were not interested. Married to your work, remember? I just—" John paused again, thinking it over. Other than the fact that Sherlock seemed to be alarmed by sex—and he was alarmed, no matter how hard the eccentric genius tried to deny it—why weren't they? As many people that had assumed they were a couple, he hadn't ever entertained the notion, not really. And the thought in and of itself wasn't that bad. In fact, it was rather pleasant. He didn't think that there would be much of a change. It wasn't like Sherlock would turn into some sort of extremely expressive and caring individual. But there was that nagging urge at the back of his mind that said that it was odd. That he couldn't be _funny_. Of course he was fine with others being... gay but he wasn't himself—he couldn't be. He'd had loads of girl friends. _And look how well those have turned out, John_ his brain unhelpfully supplied for him.

"I need a minute."

Sherlock tilted his chin back slightly. Shock—ore or less shock, rather than denial—which was what he had initially expected. He wasn't going to try to further validate anything he'd said—that would only make the circumstances worse. John already seemed upset enough. An utterance of 'Take your time' was his only response to John dismissing himself from the room hastily. Part of him wanted to write down all of the details of the exchange and John's reaction for future reference—another part of him felt genuinely hurt. An odd sensation, and one he legitimately did not want to record in his notebook.

John took a seat in his chair, carefully fluffing up the pillow. He leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking. It wasn't that he was averse to the idea of himself and Sherlock as a couple, romantically or to his surprise, sexually. He just couldn't accept it. People would talk. Well, people already talked but this would be different. If he and Sherlock became a couple, there would be the validation of what they were saying. There would be the sidelong glances and whispered discussions that quieted when they entered the room that he couldn't just take it all in stride because it would be true.

John tossed and turned in his bed, eight-year-old body shivering in the cool night air as his blanket slid to the ground. A raised voice woke him and he sat bolt up right in his bed, looking around for the source of the commotion. He pushed himself out of bed, curling his toes against the icy wood of his floor. He pushed the door to his bedroom open and walked down the stairs, following the angry hushed tones. The living room door was cracked slightly, a sliver of light peeping out through the bottom of the frame. He tiptoed over and turned the brass handle, silently opening the door enough to see what the fuss was about. The clock on the mantle read 1:13 he noted before his father moved in to view, glaring at his sister Harry.

"Do you expect us to just be—be okay with this?" he hissed, a bit of spit flying out of his mouth. "This is disgusting." John cocked his head in confusion and his mother cut in, putting a hand on his father's bicep. She was crying.

"We're going to get you help, sweetheart. Your just confused."

"I am not confused!" Harry shouted and their dad made a quieting gesture, pointing in the direction of John's room. "No, I won't! I won't be silent any longer! I like kissing girls and that's all there is to it. I'm not confused or rebelling or any nonsense like that."

"It's not normal dear." Whispered their mum but their father cut in:

"You're a bloody freak. As long as you're a dyke, I wont have you in this household."

"Dad." Harry had started to cry now, silent tears running down her cheeks.

"No I won't have it! I won't have any of your _funniness_ around us, affecting our John. This is a God-fearing family and it will stay that way." Their father raised a threatening hand adjunct to his head and though John did not understand why, he was suddenly frightened for his sister.

"Please—" but Harry cut off at the groan of the door. John's eyes widened; he had been so enthralled in the argument the rest of his family had been having that he had forgotten he was not supposed to be listening and leaned too hard on the door. Heart racing, he ran upstairs, opened his bedroom door, and leaped into his bed, pulling the covers around his chin and feigning sleep. A minute or so later his father came up and looked at him for a while, trying to discern if his son was sleeping or simply feigning rest. John could hear his heartbeat and was convinced his father could as well, but the man turned and was framed in shadow by the door as he walked back downstairs.

John blinked as the memory suddenly over-took him. He hadn't thought about that night in over twenty years, not since the talk with Harry that had left them angry and estranged. He pondered the memory and his emotions, burying his head in his hands. He decided to attempt to separate them in his mind; his feelings for Sherlock verse how he thought people would view them. After a good half hour of sorting and considering and weighing pros and cons John came to a conclusion which he thought should have been obvious from the start, always being a man true to his emotions. Do what you want and bugger the rest.


	5. Chapter 5: A Body Found

**First things first. These are not my characters, nor will it ever be. The characters were all originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the ones that were not belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Second, I would like to say**_**this fic is not entirely mine**_**. It was co-written and created by my RP and friend Trace (you can find him at striped-cardigan on tumblr).**

**To make up for the long absences that I take, I give you a long chapter!**

Sherlock still stood in the kitchen, absorbed in thought once more. It all seemed like an interesting idea at the time, but he didn't expect the sudden rush of shame and regret that followed that sort of confrontation. He hated to think of the teasing he'd get from Mycroft if he and John were to go through with this—Mycroft would inevitably know. It would probably upset Mummy Holmes to a whole new degree, too. It wasn't just the prospect of fickle harassment that would breed—it was the painful reminder of one of the few memories that he'd never been able to delete from his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

Being the youngest of the Holmes boys, Sherlock was always the decidedly weaker of the two. He was a rather sickly child—every harsh winter bore a delicately grim presence in their household. The Holmes boys never celebrated Christmas, as well-off as the family was financially, they had no money to waste on petty frivolities every December due to the routine increase in Sherlock's medical bills that marked the end of every year. Mycroft had always felt obligated to care for his little brother in these dark times, regardless of whether or not Sherlock objected to his fussing over him—constantly insisting on him eating more and, on rarer occasions when things looked particularly grim for Sherlock, sleeping in his bed with him as a means of keeping him warm and keeping watch over the frail child—simply monitoring his breathing and temperature.

Of course there were a few particularly rare times when the fragile and quiet younger of the two would wake up in the middle of the night tearful and hysterical and his brother would do everything he could to comfort him but things changed and perhaps over time the idea of methods needed to comfort his brother through the chilling nights and hysterical nightmares and cold sweat-inducing fevers became more of methods to just get him to be quiet already. But Sherlock didn't know any better on the fateful night where he'd been awakened by some particularly startling dreams when he felt Mycroft's hand in his pajama pants and the strange sensation that followed—it all became something of a game between the two of them until Mummy Holmes had been awoken by the ruckus upstairs. Sherlock had taken the blame, being the weakest and not wanting to upset his brother, and this alone had been one of the main factors that contributed to their feud. It was all a matter of whose fault it was, who had upset Mummy, and why Mummy had cried and things were never the same again.

Sherlock shuddered at the mere thought of that momentous and particularly dark winter, only snapping back to reality, still shaken and unsettled by his thoughts, when he heard John's footsteps outside of the kitchen.

John entered the kitchen to find Sherlock in the same position he had left him in—leaning against the counter with a contemplative and almost confused expression. He looked slightly lost for a moment but his gaze snapped over to John almost as soon as he entered the room. John thought about how to phrase what he had affirmed with himself and why, but he couldn't and honestly didn't want to at the moment. He tried thinking of any other way to express how he felt, but unless he wanted to make a long and most likely embarrassing declaration of love, there was only one way he could divulge his deliberations. With a confident step that was mostly constructed of bravery and strength of mind, John walked over to Sherlock and grabbed his purple shirt—mussing it quite a bit; his heart racing, he pulled the other man even closer—so near that their noses bumped, breath hot on each other's faces, but stopped, suddenly unsure.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Sherlock?" he breathed. "Because if this is just some experiment—"

Sherlock cut him off.

"Oh, shut up John—why would I make _this_ into an experiment?" He spoke in a hushed tone but furrowed his brows as if in skeptic amusement. John, however, hardly seemed convinced of this judging by his tone of voice, and evidently was about to object but Sherlock promptly seized the opportunity to lean in and kiss him before he could protest.

Sherlock's mouth was warm against his and John felt rigid, most likely from his worry and apprehension. The man was awkward, as he was in anything that involved physical contact, at first. But John started to move in closer still to Sherlock, opening his mouth slightly and running a tongue across his lips and reaching a hand up to tangle his hand in the bottom of the dark hair, and his friend's frozen, surprised demeanor seemed to melt. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was to him anymore. More than a companion certainly, but the term 'boyfriend' was hardly a word he would ever apply to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and genius; the term would achromatize him in a way John would never stand for. All musing was lost, however, as John pressed Sherlock up against the counter and Sherlock's tongue entered his mouth. It was intoxicating, invigorating. Perhaps it wasn't the best kiss that he'd ever had, objectively, (although the way Sherlock seemed to be learning and doing that _thing_ with his tongue was putting it within the top three) but it was paramount because it was with Sherlock, his flat-mate—Sherlock, his best friend. The impossibly annoying and infuriating prat that had brought him back to life again after he'd returned from the war, broken and alone. Just as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and moaned slightly into the snog, a controlled pounding came from the door and a voice that John recognized as Lestrade's came through the door.

If it weren't for his mouth being so prevalently occupied, Sherlock would have probably shouted an eloquent and exotic insult at the door—until he heard Lestrade asking if they were even there and what was going on. He reluctantly pulled away from John, his hands still resting at his waist, glaring at the door and hardly bothering to straighten his clothes or slightly rumpled hair before striding over to the door with John close behind, looking generally bitter and disgruntled at the source of the disruption upon opening the door.

John watched Sherlock turn the handle, irritated that they had been interrupted by something so inconsequential, comparatively; John grudgingly admitted to himself that it wasn't truly that negligible, and that what the Detective Inspector was doing was actually extremely kind, but couldn't Lestrade have waited one more bloody day to visit him? John wasn't dense, in spite of what Sherlock might say during one of his blacker moods, and he knew what the sojourns truly were. They were check-ups, to make sure he didn't do anything expressly rash. Still, it was pleasant to see him all the same; customarily. Now however, John sought nothing more than to return to kissing Sherlock. As the aperture swung open with a bang, Sherlock glowered at Lestrade and muttered something that John was convinced he didn't want to hear. Suddenly aware of their flustered appearance, John stuttered out something along the lines of,

"Uh, 'lo Greg. I see you've noticed that he's uh back."

Sherlock feigned a sort of remotely pleasant (or at the very least, not excessively murderous looking) expression upon being bombarded with questions from Lestrade, who seemed to have invited himself into their sitting room.

"Good to see you're back—but… what the hell? You... Died." Lestrade looked skeptical—and perhaps a bit awestruck. "How did you do it?"

Sherlock let out a hardly detectable long-suffering sigh and threw John an apologetic glance for the intrusion that Lestrade provided before it was suggested that the whole matter would be best discussed over a cup of tea.

"How did you do it Sherlock?" John exclaimed suddenly as he put down his cup of tea. "I was going to ask but I went to the shop..." he trailed off.

Lestrade looked befuddled but was evidently too engrossed as to how Sherlock had done it rather than the shopping. He looked at Sherlock attentively, if not slightly skeptically.

Sherlock set down his tea pensively before speaking. There were many minutiæ that he'd much rather evade—given the fact that Mycroft had been involved and explaining how exactly he had contributed, as well as how everything fell into place would be exceedingly wearisome and a subject he didn't care to even mention in the first place.

"Had a bit of assistance from some associates from the morgue and the homeless network, as far as staging my initial berævement goes."

He lightly shrugged as if this was an adequate explanation.

"Aside from that, it was primarily a matter of timing and planning ahead—when one anticipates to play one of James Moriarty's games and succeed they must be sure to always be one step ahead of him. I knew precisely what he'd had planned before the entire Richard Brook incident—all rather obvious, in truth—though it would appear that I wasn't the solitary individual who had taken such scrupulous precautions..."

"Sherlock," Lestrade started. "Do you mean to say—"

It was John who swiftly cut him off, excusing himself.

"I think I'm going to go get some more biscuits."

"Precisely." Sherlock continued, not even batting an eye as John exited the room with an air of false calm. "And he's already made himself known to us. He seems to be more than fervent to jump right back into his little game again." He muttered something about Moriarty being notably less great without his boy toy—though he hardly thought now would be the apt moment to allude to the verity that he had been responsible for Sebastian Moran's murder.

John listened to the subdued chatter—if it could truly be called that. He heard Sherlock make a few ambiguous suggestions about Mycroft that left him giggling quietly. But then Lestrade asked for elaboration regarding Moriarty and Sebastian, and John turned away, hastily darting for the tea. He could talk about the incident if he was so inclined, but why would he desire to do so? When Moriarty next appeared—and he would, John was sure—they would deal with him in a fast and easy way: by putting a bullet through his brain—a real one this time. John smiled slightly at this but it turned into a frown. Sherlock must be rubbing off on him if he had started to be this pleased about the prospect of killing someone. He took a sip of hot tea and braved the living room once more.

Sherlock glanced up when John reentered the room, looking a bit relieved. Lestrade was insisting on details a propos their encounter with Moriarty. He'd managed to indicate that Jim had threatened them, but that they'd made it out safely, in spite of the fact that he'd definitely return. Obviously he didn't want to go into any details about what he'd done to John—at least, not without the particulars being given by John himself. He didn't want Scotland Yard to get too involved too quickly, not to mention he still felt that it was his fault for what had happened and regardless of the circumstances, was still handling it all rather childishly.

John stepped back into the living room and sighed in relief: Sherlock and Lestrade had finished discussing Moriarty. It seemed that the D.I. Was now going over a muddling case with Sherlock.

"...and we found her body in the garden—head cut clean off and stuck on a stake; claw marks across her torso. There were no fingerprints, or even footsteps. I don't understand it; Anderson is working over time." Sherlock made a _hmmm_ sort of noise, then shot out of his chair.

Sherlock clasped his hands together pensively, pacing towards the window. He muttered something about claw marks and Anderson absently before realizing John had reentered the room.

"John, how do you feel about the country?" He smirked, turning from the window to face the others, though judging by the gleam in his eyes his mind was already at the scene of the crime.

"Love a good countryside murder. Always quaint, subtly brilliant."

An hour later, John and Sherlock were sitting silently inside a cab. John was gazing out of the window at the passing London panorama—a whirl of multiple hues of grey mixing together into one dull tint that always encased the foggy city. His companion had his hands perched under his chin and wore a face of extreme concentration. John glanced over at him, attempting to be nonchalant and knowing that he was failing entirely because nothing was lost on Sherlock. He considered asking what was going through the Consulting Detective's mind but decided against it—the last time he'd interrupted a visit to Sherlock's mind palace (John still thought the name was pretentious, even for Sherlock and that something such as 'brain attic' could suffice) he'd gotten shouted at, and John didn't really fancy a row at the moment.

He glanced back out the window at the softly pouring raindrops that were sliding in trails across the fogged-up glass, and he leaned back against the seat, telling himself he was only going to rest his eyes for a moment. Before he knew it, John's head lolled back as he slipped in to a lucid sleep, breathing lightly through his nose. Soon enough, dreams over took him—lovely ones, which was a change that John was extremely grateful for. Images of soft, ebony hair and eyes the colour of space filled his mind and he started up a light snore, filling the car with something akin to white noise. Little known to the sleeping man, Sherlock was watching him fixedly, almost all of his attention focused on John as he tried to dissect the one thing he had never been able to do so to: emotions.

Sherlock was intrigued by the contented, at peace look about John's person as he slept quietly. He glanced away briefly—ponderingly collecting his thoughts, none of which were presently allied with the case. This was strange to him, ever feeling like there was anything—or in this case, anyone—that was at any point far more fascinating and intriguing than whatever case he may be caught up in. He speculated that this emotion could be considered love. He was finding it horribly distracting and utterly confusing, but completely inescapable. _Inevitable as death_, he thought to himself. He'd never consider any paltry emotion to be nearly so interesting as death, however this was different. Death is rigor mortis, the cease of life—the shut down of vital organs, which he found to be fairly straightforward, but fascinating nonetheless. Love, on the other hand, was a lethal mixture of serotonin and dopamine that could destroy a man without leaving a trace, save his mental instability. Perhaps love wasn't so arid at all.

John tossed slightly in his sleep, hand moving up to the scruff of his neck and sighing in contentment. His head was angled just so, that his nose pressed against the dark seat. He brought his other arm up and it fell just short of his cheek, landing on his chest and curling at the top of his yellow jumper, adjusting the collar slightly.

Sherlock was still watching John contemplatively, until John shifted in his slumber and Sherlock realized exactly _how_ much he'd been staring and turned away for fear of him actually waking and noticing him. Sherlock glanced out the window, trying to shift his thoughts back to the case as they were almost to the crime scene. Within another fifteen minutes the cabbie stopped outside of a cloud of police cars and forensics crew dawdling aimlessly about in a highly manicured field, most of which didn't dare cross the caution tape surrounding the outer hedges of a garden themselves, or they'd just abandoned hope of finding anything useful. He smirked smugly at the sight before turning to find John was awake again, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He yawned and stretched his limbs.

"What time is it? Are we there?" Sherlock gave him a bit of a subdued smile and affirmed, practically leaping out of the car. John pushed open his door and handed the cabbie £30, slamming the door as he lightly trotted to catch up with Sherlock's long stride. Upon getting closer to the yellow tape, John saw Donovan and Anderson with their backs to Sherlock and himself, and his companion wearing a devious grin.

Donovan's jaw dropped when Sherlock pushed through the police barricade with John close at his heels.

"So the freak came back from the dead?" She looked cynical and peered at Anderson as if assuring that she wasn't the only one seeing this. Sherlock just smiled—a mocking version of the pleasantry.

"And I see that you are still as _amiable_ as ever. And Anderson-" he sniffed. "Tropical deodorant for women… really? You're not fooling anyone." He bobbed his head, smiling in haughty fulfillment at the affronted look of incredulity about Anderson's face.

"Glad to see nothing here's changed." He muttered to himself as he set to scrutinizing the gruesome mess before him.

John nodded at the two and tried his best not to snicker while they were looking at him. He jogged along rapidly behind Sherlock until he reached the grizzly site, feeling a little nostalgic. He hadn't been at a crime scene with Sherlock since before the fall, and he'd missed it, though he had been too engrossed in wallowing in his grief at the time to detect that it was not only his friend's queer individuality that he'd missed. Sherlock gestured for John to inspect the cadaver while he stayed back and scrutinized the entirety of awfully distorted place, all of his consideration focused on viewing and recording every slight entity.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he examined the headless body. He pointed at the base of the neck, which had been the largest source of blood loss.

"John, look. Where the head was severed—a chainsaw was used. Fairly new, at that—a clean cut." He stepped back a bit to gesticulate over the body in its whole.

"She'd put up a struggle before she was overpowered. Tears in her dress, it was a definite exertion. The murderer had her in a chokehold and an arm about her waist before the initial death, then came..." He gestured dramatically, mimicking the actions he was elucidating with an imaginary weapon. "...the chainsaw. Rather messy, but they were trying to make a point..." He let his hands fall to his sides and he pressed his fingertips together in thought. For a split second, he looked perplexed.

"Brilliant." John said, grinning.

When Sherlock didn't respond, John looked over at him.

"Sherlock...?" John questioned. His friend looked puzzled, a feat that in and of its self was remarkable, as well as faintly bothered. Sherlock frowned and moved to the side, then peered over at the head. He walked five paces, and then looked again.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

He frowned—whatever thought that may have perturbed him rapidly faded away. By now he was crouching near the deceased's feet, examining the scuffs on the expensive-looking black heels.

"She tripped. Over the garden fence..." He stood and walked carefully to said fence, gently touching one of the sharp metal fence posts. It was covered in blood. He rushed back over to the body, tersely pulling back the top of the strapless dress to examine the woman's bare chest.

"These claw marks, they're not from any sort of animal. They're from the fence. She fell forward onto the fence when she stumbled—barely broke her own fall before it could completely impale her chest, but she was wounded nevertheless. Opportune chance for the killer to strike and finish what he'd started." He stood up from where he'd been hunched over the body.

"The killer was noticeably male, judging by the range of bruises his hands left on her neckline." He garbled as a side note. There was still something about the entire scenario that was distressing his train of thought.

"Yes but why a chainsaw? Couldn't the killer have used something more discreet and a little less... messy?" John inquired but stopped short when he saw the corpses head. He blinked. It almost looked familiar—more than memorable, he abruptly realized, because he knew that face well, though the elegant features were almost unrecognizable through the gore. But it couldn't be… the woman he was thinking of was dead; she'd been killed years ago. Yet against all sensible reason, there sat the head of Irene Adler. "Sher—Sherlock. That's... _The_ woman, she's Irene Adler."

He looked tranquilly up at John. There was just a barely demonstrable look of nervousness about his expression as he spoke stridently.

"Yes. Obviously." He glanced up at the decapitated head and frowned before slowly moving to the other side of the body.

"The chainsaw is a bit absurd, if you ask me. Very clear means, the killer was trying to make a point." He hooked his hands together. "But what?" He hissed under his breath as he began to pace in frustration. He froze abruptly and his hands fell to his sides, stricken with a shocking insight.

"...Oh."

John sulked. Of course it would be apparent to Sherlock. He forced himself to turn from the mangled features and body of the woman and looked upon his friend, who was wearing his 'I'm better than you' smug face. John opened his mouth, ready to ask how she was recently deceased instead of a rotting heap in the ground but closed it again. There would be time for that later; now however, he just needed to know who had killed her and why.

"The point?" he asked roughly.

He let out a breath, sounding almost uneasy-or as close to uneasy in such a situation that a sociopath could get...

"The point is, this was meant for me, and myself specifically. A warning of sorts, I suppose, unless it's intended to be some sick 'joke'." He looked at John questioningly. "Oh... perhaps I should mention, I knew the Woman wasn't dead all along. Mycroft had been horribly _misinformed_, and perhaps I should also mention that I contributed to her escaping execution—she was to be beheaded." He clasped his hands together, looking back down at the body, pensive.

John stood there for a moment, unblinking. Then he got angry.

"And you didn't think to tell me this why?" It wasn't that John had cared particularly for the woman, though she had been quite fit. It was that Sherlock had known and not told him.

"Unbelievable." John crossed his arms, wanting to stalk back to the cab and go back to the flat, but not at the risk of acting like a child. A nagging voice in the back of his head whispered that he had done the same thing to Sherlock, or thought he did. He told that voice to shut it, because that had been different. His action had been out of sympathy; this, however, seemed lacking in any point whatsoever not to tell John.

"You could have said something," cried he, finally. He'd been so worried about his friend, even Mycroft had told him to keep a closer eye on his brother than usual, though looking back on the series of events he realized that this was most likely because of Moriarty and less so of Irene Adler. Why he would expect Sherlock to do something that kind for somebody else's benefit was unfathomable.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, seemingly oblivious to John's frustration and still silently studying the body. "I didn't think it would be particularly relevant, after it was all done with. Especially not to you." He paused in thought for a good few minutes, before glancing up at John. "As far as the woman's death goes, the only individual that I'd expect to be so thorough in specifically targeting such a personal and gruesome message at me of all people would be James Moriarty." He said lightly, sounding distracted by his thoughts still.

"But what is the message Sherlock? What is he trying to say?" John's brow furrowed. First kidnapping him, then killing Irene Adler, what was Moriarty trying to do? Surely he was threatening Sherlock in someway, but why? What was the point? Moriarty was so slippery that he could easily sneak in to 221B, kill the both of them, then leave and no one would be the wiser. The way he'd seen the man, he seemed passed playing games to prove who was the smartest sociopath. Sherlock looked at John and shook his head, before beginning to pace in frustration.

"That's it. Precisely... I don't know what he wants this time. Perhaps he's trying to tie up loose ends after the incident at the hospital, but if that were his intention he would have probably directly targeted _me_ by now. Then again, you know him. Always one for dramatics, riddles... making a game of everything..." There was a brisk sort of uncertainty to his voice, not at all his usual confident and superior tone. He sounded almost genuinely emotionally distraught about the fact that Moriarty seemed to be so far ahead of him—he sounded almost fearful.

John frowned at the tone of Sherlock's voice but said nothing. It would do no good to point this out to him, and he'd probably go have a sulk for much of the rest of the day and his shoulder was already aching slightly. Sherlock spared the body a final glance, then turned and walked briskly away. John grumbled but stood and followed him at the same pace.

Upon reentering the flat, John collapsed on the couch—it had been a long day and his shoulder was twanging. Sherlock, assuming one of his quirky positions, perched himself atop the couch backing behind John. He was quiet—silent if not for the occasional deep draw of breath. John rubbed at his shoulder absentmindedly.

After nearly an hour of thoughtful silence and constantly tossing and turning in frustration until Sherlock found himself sprawled upside-down on the sofa in its entirety, his legs propped up against the wall and the rest of him draped carelessly over John with his head nearly touching the ground. He furrowed his brow as if wondering how he'd ended up like this and scrambled to sit up, ignorant to the fact that this left him suspended atop John's lap in a rather compromising manner.

"I just don't understand why he's doing this. I figure I know what he's planning, yet it all seems so pointless, even for him." He muttered, facing the wall and looking childishly flustered.

John was completely still. During the hour past, when Sherlock had sort of melted across him, he hadn't had the heart to disturb his train of thought, but he'd almost reached his limit when Sherlock's head had slithered past his crotch. It had rested there for around ten minutes in which John had studiously attempted to think of nothing but the body they'd seen before, which had served its purpose. Now with Sherlock balanced atop his lap, he knew that his only hope would be to make a strategic shift to the man's enticing body. He slowly inched Sherlock onto his right leg as he replied:

"But does he really need a point? I mean, he's Moriarty; he enjoys putting everyone else in pain." John sighed, the warm pressure on his bits that could have easily made the situation extremely awkward relieved.

"True. But I'd expect more from him, as anyone should." He suddenly stood, striding across the room and picking up his phone from where he'd left it at the table. "He's not going to stop at this. He could victimize anyone I have any sort of connection with at any time. I'd best warn Lestrade, and we need to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson." He spoke with a new sort of confidence as he typed, sending a rather frank announcement that the D.I.'s life was at stake to Lestrade and pressing send without much thought of the fact that it was nearly midnight and people usually didn't care to be rudely awakened by nonchalant texts warning them that James Moriarty may or may not be trying to kill them.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know, most people don't enjoy being awoken by texts saying that their lives are in danger." Sherlock barely raised his head from his mobile, and made a distracted noise of acknowledgement. After a few seconds of quiet in which John stretched his legs and Sherlock stood so still he could be a tree, John rose himself and scratched his nose.

"I'm going to go to bed. Wake me if something happens, yeah?" With that, John walked up the stairs and opened the door to his room, throwing off his shirt, shoes, and trousers and climbing in to bed. The bed was mercifully soft and he sighed in pleasure as his head hit the fluffy pillow. Closing his eyes, he shifted to his side and breathed evenly, sleep soon to overtake him.

Sherlock absently muttered something barely coherent that bore some similarity to the words "Sleep well." under his breath in acknowledgement to John leaving the room, still too distracted with trying to explain Moriarty's prospective plans to an exasperated and sleep deprived Lestrade via text. After he'd clarified his concerns with Lestrade, he slipped the phone back in his pocket and glanced around the room with weary eyes, barely stifling a yawn. As much as he hated to admit it, the eventful day was genuinely taking a toll on his body. He scratched his head before sitting back down on the sofa for a moment to think it was only a matter of minutes before sleep overcame his restless mind.

When John entered the living room the following morning well rested, he found Sherlock asleep on the couch. Stretching and yawning he put the kettle on, all too aware that he had to show up to the surgery in an hour. He glanced at Sherlock again and decided he would wake him at the very latest possible time—God knew the man needed his sleep. When the kettle boiled he forced his gaze from the man (who looked strangely beautiful in the beams of sunlight trickling through the window). P sopped two slices of bread in the toaster. Once he'd had a few bites of the crisp and buttery substance he ran a hand through his hair and shuffled over to the couch to rouse Sherlock who was, John noticed , as he got closer, sitting on his only clean jumper.

"Sherlock." he hissed but the man did not wake. "Sherlock." he repeated slightly louder, shaking the man lightly. When this did not work, John realized he would have to reevaluate the situation. Stealthily, he removed Sherlock's shoes and socks and pulled off his jacket. It struck him for a moment how very odd it would look if Sherlock were to waken now. Ignoring the errant thought, he carefully set the articles of clothing aside and reached with steady arms underneath Sherlock, picking him up gently and carrying the surprisingly light man to his room. Sherlock grabbed the fabric of his green button-up shirt and seemed to drag himself closer to John with a sigh. He placed the man under the hardly used black covers and tried to detach his hands from the shirt. Sherlocks unconscious mind however, did not seem to want to let go which is why he was leaving five minutes late and throwing on his yellow jumper as he legged it down to the underground.


End file.
